I take another gulp of water and look up into the stands. If only Dad were here to see this! Even though he isn’t, I’m riding a wave of happiness so big right now that nothing can shake me off it. Not even missing him. My mother, who is sitting up straight and looking out at the rink now that nothing’s happening, waves at me. So does Dr. Weisman. I wave my stick back at them jubilantly.
I glance over at the Minutemen’s bench. Their coach is standing a little apart, next to his two defensemen. He points at me, and they nod. This strikes me as a little strange, but the whistle blows again and we’re back on the ice before I can give it another thought. Darcy and the Minutemen’s center face-off, and then the Minutemen have the puck and they’re driving toward the goal and all I’m thinking about is the ice and the moves and the missile that is my body. I’m an arrow, a race car, a rocket, crouching low and flying under the radar. The Minutemen’s forward feints left, but I’m on him. I snake my stick in and scoop the puck away and the crowd is on its feet again as I spin around and race back toward the goal.
The shouts throb inside my helmet.
“COM-ETS! COM-ETS! COM-ETS!”
It’s like déjà vu—I’m blazing down the ice again with the goal in reach. Only this goal is the one that will push us over the top and win us the championship. Nothing can stop me.
I never see it coming.
Next thing I know, I’m flying through the air. I smash into the boards and bounce off like a yo-yo. As I tumble downward, my skates get caught in my stick and my head jerks back and the last thing I hear before my helmet slams against the ice is the ref screaming, “BOARDING!”
Time passes. How much, I don’t know My eyelids flutter open. The bright lights of the arena overhead make me squint. For a moment I have absolutely no idea where I am.
“Is she going to be okay?” I hear my mother ask. Her voice is tight with fear.
“She’ll be fine, Mrs. Sloane,” I hear Coach Danner reply. “Doc says she’s not concussed.”
“What happened? I didn’t see.”
“She got boarded by a Minutemen defenseman.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an illegal move. He checked her into the boards from behind.”
“I thought bodychecking wasn’t allowed in PeeWee hockey”
Coach Danner sighs. “This is twelve-and-up, Mrs. Sloane. Technically, it’s allowed now at this age. But not boarding. Don’t worry, that player is out for the rest of the game.”
“But how—”
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Sloane. He told the ref it was his idea, but it’s possible that his coach told him to do it. Cassidy’s been high scorer all night, and she was playing brilliantly. It was certainly to their team’s advantage to take her out.”
I sit up, gingerly touching the lump on the back of my head. My mother bursts into tears.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I croak. “I’m okay” I look around, wondering how I got to the bench. I turn to Coach Danner. “Is the game over?”
“No, honey,” he says. “I called a time-out. We moved you here after Doc checked you over. You weren’t out long at all.”
Courtney and the entire Mother-Daughter Book Club are leaning over the railing behind the bench watching us.
“Is she okay?” calls Mrs. Hawthorne anxiously.
My mother nods and blows her nose.
“I’ve never seen anyone move so fast in my entire life,” says Mrs. Wong. “I thought you had wings, Clementine!”
Mom laughs shakily. I tug on Coach Danner’s jacket. “Coach, right before I went in just then?”
“Yes?”
“I saw the Minutemen’s coach say something to those two skaters.” I point to the defenseman sulking in the penalty box, and his teammate nearby. “Then he pointed at me.”
Coach Danner regards me soberly. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Cassidy?”
“Uh-huh.”
My mother’s eyes narrow. “Does that mean what I think it means, Bob?”
Coach Danner nods reluctantly. “Looks like it.”
My mother rises to her feet. She puts her hands on her hips and glares at the opposing team’s coach. “What’s his name?”
“Stan Hall.”
My mother grabs Coach Danner’s bullhorn and holds it up to her mouth. “Coach Stanley Hall, your presence is required at the Comets’ bench,” she announces. Her voice carries across the arena, the imperious voice of Queen Clementine, and the crowd falls silent. “Immediately,” she adds.
With my mother in full supermodel mode, Coach Hall has no choice but to obey. He swaggers over, taking his time.
“What?” he says belligerently.
“Did you tell your players to hurt my daughter?” my mother demands. The Mother-Daughter Book Club is lined up along the rail behind her, arms folded across chests, scowling.
Coach Hall flicks me a glance. “Of course not,” he says.
“I saw you,” I tell him.
“Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe she does,” my mother snaps. “My daughter doesn’t lie.”
“Well maybe your precious daughter should be practicing pretty little leaps and twirls instead of taking up my team’s valuable time,” he blusters. “We’ve got a championship match to finish here, in case you didn’t notice. It’s not my fault hockey’s a rough game. The rink is no place for a princess.”
“Is that so?” says my mother. She’s a full head taller than Coach Hall, and she stares down at him, unblinking. His gaze falters after a few seconds, and he looks away. My mother continues, “It seems to me that my ‘princess,’ as you put it, has been wiping the ice all night with those PeeWee peabrains of yours out there.”
Coach Danner is watching my mother, fascinated. Queen Clementine has that effect on people.
“A bit of a coincidence that the game’s high scorer is suddenly down and out,” she adds. “Don’t you think?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “If I ever catch you pulling a trick like that again, I’ll wipe the ice with you myself.”
She turns away. The royal audience is over, and Coach Hall is dismissed. He stands there uncomfortably for a moment, looks over at the Mother-Daughter Book Club—who are all smiling broadly now—clears his throat, and retreats to the Minutemen bench. His swagger has vanished, I note with satisfaction.
“I can see where Cassidy gets her spirit,” says Coach Danner, looking at my mother admiringly.
“Way to go, Mom,” I tell her.
She smiles at me, and then her regal composure vanishes and her face crumples and she hugs me to her fiercely. “Oh, sweetheart, for a moment I thought—”
“It’s okay, Mom, really,” I assure her. “I’m fine.” I glance up to where Dr. Weisman is sitting in the stands. I know exactly what my mother thought.
She looks over at Coach Danner. “Is she really fine?”
“Absolutely But I’ll keep her out for the rest of the game just to be sure, if you’d like.”
My mother’s arms tighten around me. I stiffen. “I’m fine,” I tell her, pushing away. “Please, Mom.”
She looks at me searchingly.
“Mom,” I ask, struck with sudden inspiration. “What would Jo March do?”
My mother’s mouth drops open. “Cassidy Ann Sloane!” she cries in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re quoting Little Women!” She glances up at Mrs. Wong and Mrs. Hawthorne. “Did you hear that? My baby is quoting Louisa May Alcott!”
“You go, girl!” calls Emma’s mother. Everybody else grins and gives me a thumbs-up.
“For Pete’s sake,” I mumble, embarrassed.
My mother looks down at me and smiles. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all,” she says. Then she looks over at the penalty box and the smile vanishes. “I’ll tell you what Jo March would do. Jo March would get right back out there and kick some Minutemen you-know-what. And she’d be right. I think it’s time to show Coach Hall what this princess is really made of.”
/> I throw my arms around her. “Thanks!”
“Your dad would be so proud of you,” she whispers into my hair. “I know I am.”
I put my helmet back on and get some quick last-minute advice from Coach Danner and then I skate back out onto the ice. The crowd gives me a standing ovation.
The ref gives me the puck, blows the whistle, and we’re back in the game with thirty seconds to go.
I whip the puck over to Kyle, who passes it to Darcy while I deke to the left and skip by the Minutemen’s right wing. I zoom past Coach Hall. His face looks like thunder, but there’s nothing he can do to stop me now. Darcy passes and I catch the puck and drive toward the goal.
The crowd is screaming for me now. “CASS-I-DY! CASS-I-DY! CASS-I-DY!”
I smile as I lift the puck, catching it right in the sweet spot on the blade of my stick, just like Dad taught me. I glance up at the stands. My mother is on her feet with the rest of the Mother-Daughter Book Club, and her eyes are wide open this time. She’s watching me. She’s not afraid anymore.
And as I snap the puck and watch it soar straight into the Minutemen’s goal, my jubilant heart soars right along with it.
Emma
“Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows! but girls are infinitely more so.”
“Emma! Wake up! It’s time!”
I crack open one eyelid and freeze. For a split second I think I’m dreaming. There’s a soldier standing at the foot of my bed. He’s wearing a uniform and carrying a musket and everything. Then I recognize him: He’s a minuteman. He’s my father. It’s April nineteenth.
My father flips on the light and strikes a pose. “The Concord Hymn, by Ralph Waldo Emerson,” he announces. I let out a groan but he ignores me and begins to recite.
“By the rude bridge that arched, the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world”
I throw my pillow at him, knocking his tricorn hat off. He laughs, bends down and picks it up, then leaves, shutting the door behind him.
Patriot’s Day is a big deal here in Concord. It’s a school holiday, and there’s a big parade, and lots of crazy people including my parents drag their kids out of bed at the crack of dawn to go to the Old North Bridge for the battle reenactment. “It’s educational!” my mother always says, which is mom-code for “It’s guaranteed to bore you to tears but you’re going anyway because it’s good for you.” “It’s a time-honored family tradition,” my dad insists whenever Darcy and I protest.
Already, minutemen are gathering in neighboring towns, ready to re-create the march to the Old North Bridge, where over two centuries ago the patriots faced off against the British in the skirmish that sparked the Revolutionary War. People get all excited about the battle reenactment, but it’s mostly just a bunch of musket fire and soldiers on both sides falling down pretending to be dead. It’s kind of fun, though. And afterward, everyone sticks around for a big pancake breakfast.
Shivering, I reach for my glasses and crawl out of bed, nearly tripping over Cassidy. She mumbles something and rolls over, sliding off the air mattress onto the floor. “Huh?” she says, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
“Time to get up!”
Jess, who won the coin toss for the top bunk, buries her head under her pillow “You’ve got to be kidding,” she whines in a muffled voice.
I whip it off heartlessly. “C’mon, Princess Ramshackle. We’re leaving soon. You don’t want to miss all the fun.”
“You Hawthornes are crazy,” says Megan, from the other air mattress on the floor. She burrows down into her sleeping bag.
“Totally nuts,” I agree, grabbing the foot of the bag and dragging it off the mattress. She lands on the floor with a thud.
It’s our first annual Mother-Daughter Book Club Patriot’s Day sleepover. Mom suggested it, since Jess always stays over anyway. Her father and my dad are both volunteer minutemen. Mom thought it would be a good way to introduce Cassidy to a bit of Concord’s history. Having Megan here too feels good, like a puzzle whose pieces were scattered that has been put back together again. Not perfectly—Megan’s piece still has some jagged edges—but still, it’s a whole puzzle again.
Megan’s been pretty quiet since the emergency book club meeting. As far as I can tell, the Fab Four are still thick as thieves, as Mom puts it, but Megan’s being a lot nicer these days, and Jess and Cassidy and I are careful to include her more in the stuff we do. Like this sleepover, for instance.
Not that it was much of a sleepover. We couldn’t stay up late because the reenactment starts at dawn, and my parents wouldn’t let us watch the movie about the Revolutionary War that Darcy and Kyle rented. Too gory, they said. So after we made cookies we mostly just hung out here in my room, where we talked about school and Cassidy entertained us by burping the alphabet. She made us laugh so hard my mom came in and threatened to separate us if we didn’t settle down and get to sleep. Which we finally did.
“Five minutes!” my dad calls from downstairs, and we scramble for the sweats and fleece we laid out last night. It’s still cold out this time of year, especially this early in the morning.
“I look like a rooster,” says Megan glumly, inspecting herself in the mirror. She takes a comb and tackles the offending bed-head hair. “I just hope we don’t run into any boys.”
I don’t say anything. Zach Norton is one topic that Megan and I don’t discuss. At all. Ever.
We troop down to the kitchen, where my mother has orange juice waiting for us. It’s way too early to eat anything. Getting up at four A.M. always makes me feel a little queasy.
“Woo-hoo!” crows Cassidy, catching sight of the knee breeches Darcy and Kyle are wearing. “Where’s the rest of your pants, guys?”
This is Darcy’s first year as a minuteman. Kyle’s, too. You have to be in eighth grade to join the reenactment militia. My brother has been looking forward to this forever. Dad bought him the knee breeches, the vest—the whole outfit. He says this is the father-son version of our book club.
“Shut up, Sloane,” Darcy replies good-naturedly. He takes off his tricorn hat and jams it on her head, which is a mass of fiery red tangles as usual. Cassidy always looks like she has bed-head. “You’re in Concord now, not California,” he tells her. “Breeches are what true patriots wear, right, Kyle?”
Kyle nods. “Think of them as historical surf shorts.”
Cassidy laughs.
Jess regards my brother shyly. “I think you look nice,” she says.
“Thanks, Jess.” Darcy plucks his hat back from Cassidy. “See, Sloane? Some people have manners.”
Megan doesn’t say anything, but I can tell from the way she’s looking at my brother that she thinks he looks nice too. It’s weird to think that my friends might actually like my brother. As in boyfriend, I mean.
“So, is everyone clear on the plan?” says my dad.
We all nod. While they head off to join their regiment, we’ll meet up with the Wongs and Cassidy’s mom and sister. Jess’s dad will leave the twins with us once he gets there, and afterward, we’ll all rendezvous at the pancake breakfast and then come back here to our house for the parade. We’re right on the parade route, and the best spot to see it is from our front yard. Or from the branches of our big oak tree. Darcy and I usually climb the tree.
“Let’s go, girls!” says my mother, and we stumble groggily down Lowell Road toward Minuteman National Park. We stake out a good spot on Buttrick Hill overlooking the Old North Bridge and wait. As the sky begins to lighten, the crowd grows, and with it the sense of anticipation. In the distance I hear the rattle of drums and the sharp, piercing marches of the fifes. The music grows closer, announcing the arrival of regiments from Lexington and Maynard and Acton and Boxboro, all the neighboring towns. Just like they did over two hundred years ago, the minutemen are gathering, alerted to the movement of the British troops by
Paul Revere and Samuel Prescott. Well, actors pretending to be Paul Revere and Samuel Prescott.
I spot lots of kids from school. Ethan is here with his dad and his older brother, and I see the Pattersons from church. For once, I’m not wearing anything of Nicole’s. There’s no sign of Zach Norton or the rest of the Fab Four yet, though Becca, at least, will probably turn up. Her brother Stewart is in the reenactment for the first time this year, just like Darcy and Kyle. He’s not a minuteman, though. The Chadwicks have always played the part of British soldiers because their ancestors were Tories. I’m glad my dad and Darcy don’t have to be redcoats.
“There’s my father,” Jess shouts, and we all wave wildly at him. Mr. Delaney spots us and threads his way through the crowd, dragging a pair of sleepy, protesting twins.
“Almost didn’t make it,” he tells my mother. “These two are a handful.”
“We’ll take it from here,” says my mother, plucking them skillfully away from him.
“Thanks,” he replies gratefully, and trots over to join his regiment.
“When I get bigger I’m going to be a minuteman too,” brags Dylan, staring after his father.
“Me, too,” says Ryan.
“Nuh-uh,” says Dylan. “I said minuteman first. You have to be a redcoat.”
“No way,” Ryan retorts. “They were the bad guys.”
“You have to be a red-coat! You have to be a red-coat!” Dylan chants gleefully. Ryan flies at him, enraged, and the two of them tumble onto the wet grass, where they scuffle like puppies.
“Will you boys quit it!” scolds Jess.
“Who wants cocoa?” cries my mother, whipping a thermos out of her bag and holding up some paper cups. This gets the twins’ attention, and their argument is instantly forgotten as they crowd around her for the treat.
“Little brothers are a pain in the neck,” grumbles Jess.
Megan looks at them wistfully. “I think they’re kind of cute,” she says. “I wouldn’t mind having a little brother.”
Jess snorts. “You’re welcome to one of mine anytime.”